Handcuffed to the Metaphorical Radiator
by Elske
Summary: Giftfic for the AMAZING fmapreshwab, who wanted Juliet to have Shawn and Lassy locked together in a room to work out their differences. It's gonna be epic. At least, that's the plan. Shassie slash, of coursee.  Eventually.
1. Of Daydreaming and Matchmaking

[[Author's Notes:

Hello dear readers!

This is the first installment in a gift-fic I'm writing for the dear fmapreshwab, who gave me a most excellent prompt. I only hope I'm doing it justice, because she is awesome: an amazing writer who does exquisite Shassie-fic, leaves great reviews, and generally serves as a source of fic-inspiration for yours truly.

I'd only intended to write little tiny things, but the idea I got in my head was so epic that it's going to take a few chapters to do it justice. :D I wanted to get the first one published as quickly as possible, so I can hopefully get peer-pressure from you all to get the rest done in a timely fashion.

I'm a firm believer that Juliet is a total slash-fan, ever since the way she was grinning and squeezing when Shawn gave Lassy the note about being the all-weather tires on the alpine highways of his life and signed it "Hugs and Kisses". (Incidentally, that's why I spell it "Lassy" instead of "Lassie" because that's how Shawn spelled it in the letter. In case you were wondering. But you probably weren't.

ANYWAY. Read, review, and please do enjoy. And review. Have I mentioned that?

H&Ks, Elske]]

Juliet O'Hara has done just enough paperwork today that her mind is beginning to wander. Usually it's a task she –almost! – enjoys, the sense of closure and achievement that comes with closing a case, tying up all the loose ends.

Today, however, there's something a bit troubling on her mind: for one, the part where she's worrying about her partner. For two, there's the odd conversation with Chief Vick about how, as partners, it was their duty to look out for one another. She's fond of Carlton, she honestly is: she can't think of anyone in Santa Barbra she'd rather work with, despite the other man's occasional grumpiness, despite being perhaps too quick to reach for his gun, despite the sadness that's been hovering in his eyes ever since he stopped wearing his wedding-ring.

Was the solution as simple as finding Carlton a woman? Could it be?

There's something that's been rattling around in Juliet's brain for long enough to make her think that it's not that simple: that Carlton's problem isn't just that he's unattached, it isn't just that he's a divorcé, there's something deeper to his unhappiness.

She can hear Shawn Spencer's voice coming from somewhere in the station: it's too far away for her to make out the words. He's probably just here for his paycheck, she thinks, and then – like a flash of inspiration – she wonders if _Shawn_ isn't part of the problem.

It might be her imagination. She's always willing to admit the possibility that it could be her imagination, because she's a closet romantic at heart (and yes, the kind of romantic that admittedly occasionally picks up those romance novels where boy-meets-_boy _instead). It might just be her imagination at work.

But now Juliet's thinking of Shawn, exuberant over-the-top Shawn, who's never once claimed to be heterosexual, who flirts with her but also flirts with everyone: even, she thinks, Carlton. …no, she revises that – _especially_ Carlton. She thinks about how Shawn seems to take every opportunity to touch him, as though perhaps the spirits that guide his spirit visions are trying to push the two of them together!

Perhaps she's on to something.

Juliet thinks about the way Carlton reacts to Shawn, and it's usually something that can only be described as frustrated. She thinks about how Carlton is sometimes just as willing to touch Shawn right back, in a manly violent sort of way (of course), trapping him against walls, leaning in close to whisper veiled threats, a delicious contrast to Shawn's innuendo.

And sometimes, she realizes, she's noticed Carlton watching Shawn, although not as often, perhaps, as Shawn's got his eyes on Carlton. And sometimes after Shawn's been particularly hands-on with her partner, she's noticed Carlton fleeing to the safety of his desk and pushing the chair all the way in – not his typical posture – but – _almost_! – as though he's got something to hide. He'd disappeared for a long while the day Shawn was wriggling about in his lap, the day the spirits had him channeling that recently-deceased chorus girl. Curiouser and curiouser, thinks Juliet.

Maybe it's not just ordinary frustration on Carlton's part towards Shawn. Maybe it's _sexual_ frustration.

And maybe she's on to something.

Juliet tips back in her chair, grins to herself. So maybe she's figured out the problem: now, what she's got to do, is figure out what to do about it.

Get the two of them in the same place at the same time, for starters. Shove the two of them together and give them _no choice_ but to talk about it, once and for all.

At her house, she thinks, because if worst comes to worst: well, she just happens to have a radiator and some handcuffs.


	2. Of White Lies and Homemade Lasagna

[[Author's Notes:

Wanting to work on this story was what dragged me out of bed today. I may be mental illness' bitch, but there's no apathy invented that can take my words from me. :D

Man, I love writing Juliet. (I forgot to mention in the first chapter – the title of this is an allusion to the line where Chief Vick was telling Juliet about having to handcuff her former alcoholic partner to a radiator. So there you go.)

A million thanks to fmapreshwab, aki, and torchil for your reviews. You guys are what keep me going. :D So thank you.

Read, review, and enjoy! Up next: the dinner party of doom (and love). Oh, and if anyone can guess who Gus is courting, I will not only write you a story but give you my soul in a sparkly glass jar. Okay, maybe just the story part, I think my sweetheart _already_ owns my soul in a sparkly glass jar, but you get the picture.

H&K's,

Elske! ]]

It's over lunch the next day that Juliet takes the opportunity to put the first steps of her plan in motion. And what a golden opportunity it is, she thinks, seeing Carlton picking at some vague microwaveable mess of a lunch at his desk. There's nothing like bad food to make one jump at the chance of eating good food, is there? She picks up a file, then pauses at her partner's desk on the way to the file cabinet.

"Hey, Carlton. Enjoying your lunch?"

That's enough to make Carlton gaze a gaze of doom in the general direction of the pasta and vegetables, before stabbing savagely at a pea with a plastic fork. He looks up at her. "It could be worse. There could have been a body this morning, and then I'd be thinking about how this looks like entrails."

"I was wondering…" she pauses dramatically, "Would you be interested in coming over for dinner tomorrow? Homemade lasagna?"

"Hmm." He frowns at his lunch, then turns a quick look up at Juliet. "What's the catch?"

She thinks rapidly, touching first on the actual truth, then settling on another excuse that's just as true which makes it perfect. "Well, you're really tall."

"Mmm-hmm."

"And so are my ceilings. And my landlord is out of town. And one of the light bulbs in my kitchen is out and I can't reach it even on the ladder so I was wondering if maybe you could change it for me?" The words come out in an uneven unplanned rush, which is actually perfect, considering the circumstances. (And oh, how could she have been so stupid not to have considered he would have expected thereto be a catch in a simple invitation for dinner?)

Carlton actually cracks a half-smile. "Well, it's not as though I've anything else to do. Thanks, O'Hara."

"Anytime!" she says, a bit too cheerfully, and bounces her way over to the file cabinet. Everything is going to plan so far, and now…for Shawn.

[[* * * * * * *]]

It's close to the end of the day when she finally gets the opportunity to talk to Shawn – crime's been light for a few days, and so he's had little reason to be around the station, and Juliet's heart skips a beat when he finally arrives (because she'd been spending the last half hour trying to figure out what to do if Shawn didn't stop by the station and everything she'd come up with was either too forward or too flimsy.

She leaves her desk behind, practically dashes across the room, knowing she needs to ask Shawn far enough away from Carlton so the other man can't overhear. "Hey, Shawn!" she says, a little awkwardly.

He gives her a critical look. "Jules! Why so happy to see me?"

"Because I need a favor."

"Anything!" Shawn winks, and Juliet feels herself relaxing. Yes! This is going to work after all.

"I'm having a tiny dinner party tomorrow, and…I need one more person or else it won't work at all, and please say you'll come, around seven?"

Shawn actually laughs. "When you asked for a favor I thought it would be something difficult. Wait, what's the catch, are your parents going to be there? Or ninjas?"

"No parents, no ninjas, just a couple people from around the station." Another almost lie that's really a truth! Ohh, she is on a a roll. "Come by my place around seven? And…would you mind leaving Gus at home?" She bites her lower lip, looks at the floor.

"Mind?" Shawn laughs again. "Dude, Jules, it's perfect timing. Gus actually has a date Friday night with some mystery woman. He won't tell me who it is. I was half suspecting it was you, and I am so, so relieved."

"Relieved that it isn't me?" Her heart sinks again: she's never for a moment taken Shawn's flirting seriously, but if he really _was_ interested in her, interested in her enough that he wouldn't want his best friend going out on a date with her…

"Relieved that I'll have something to do _other_ than spy on them. Because I really want to spy on them, Jules, I really do and he's threatened to take his credit cards back if I screw up another one of his dates." He bounces on his heels, claps his hands. "You'll keep me out of trouble. Brilliant. Now, if the Chief would only have some work for us – " he looks over to where Gus is pacing around in the Chief's office, having seemingly had the idea that he might do better at persuading her alone.

"Go check with Gus." Juliet says with a grin, "and I'll see you tomorrow."

She makes it back to her desk, sits down, rummages through a stack of papers and tries to keep the self-satisfied grin off of her face. This is going to be brilliant. She is going to be the best matchmaker ever.

"O'Hara? You never said, what time should I be there for dinner?" Carlton pauses by her desk, shrugging back into his suitcoat.

"Oh! Six thirty would be great!" She tries so hard to dampen her exuberance, knowing – knowing! – that he's going to suspect something. And she's cringing, on the edge of her seat, waiting for the shoe to drop…but it doesn't.

"Good night, O'Hara," Carlton says, and he's walking towards the door, and ohmygoodness she's going to actually pull this off! As long as she can get through the day of work tomorrow without any slip-ups, anyway, she reminds herself.

She gets to her feet, pushes her chair back into place, and heads towards her car, reminding herself to stop at the grocery store on the way home – because there's lasagna to make, after all.


	3. Of Lightbulbs and Locked Rooms

[[Author's Notes:

You all are incredible amazing people and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this, adding it (and me!) to favorite and alert lists, for leaving me lovely reviews…! Thank you, and special thanks to fmapreshwab, torchil, Ly, aki, elyoko11, and beardofbees, for your reviews. Y'all are awesome. I wouldn't bother to write if there weren't any readers. :D

I actually had to do _research_ for this chapter, mostly because I have no idea how to make homemade lasagna. Also, had to look up a season 1 episode transcript for reasons that are nearly pointless. I stopped myself just short of researching whether or not there are century homes carved up into apartments in Santa Barbara…I've spent most of my life living in Old Houses, which have the distinct tactical advantage of containing doors that can be locked from the outside, as opposed to most modern houses.

The thing with Gus is a total red herring, but it amuses me (and no, it's not Chief Vick he's seeing!). He'll get a fic of his own explaining the mystery after this is done.

Okay. You're totally tired of my rambling and want to get onto the good stuff, right? Right. Read, Review, and Enjoy.

H&Ks, Elske]]

Juliet's kitchen is a bit cramped and more than a little inefficient – that's what happens when you live in one of three apartments carved out of a century home – but at this precise moment, there's no place in the world that is more exciting. No, rephrase that: no place that has the potential to be more exciting, thinks Juliet, and she's got the stepladder and lightbulbs waiting and she's chopping vegetables and any moment now Carlton will arrive and put her plan in motion!

She's singing to herself as she rough-chops spinach and nearly drops the paring knife when the doorbell rings. "Be right there," she says, tries to compose herself, opens the door.

Carlton is, as expected, exactly four and a half minutes early. "O'Hara," he says, nodding to her, and she grins.

"Carlton! You're early!"

He shrugs. "I figured it would be easier to cook if you could see what you were doing in your kitchen."

Juliet closes the door behind him, slides the bolt into place. "Thank you so much, Carlton: here's the ladder and here's the lightbulb."

The chore that proved impossible – even when Juliet was wearing her highest pair of high heels! – is no problem for Carlton: mere moments later, he's accomplished the chore and he seems to have a small smile of satisfaction on his face. The evening's off to a perfect start, thinks Juliet, as she paces over to the stove to check one more time to see if the water's come to a boil.

"Do you want a hand?" Carlton asks, a bit awkwardly.

"Um. Sure, can you wash the mushrooms?" It's the easiest thing she can think of, on account of the fact that she's pretty sure her partner isn't much of a chef. And if easily accomplished tasks lead to a pleased Carlton, well, all the better.

"It's funny," Carlton mumbles.

Juliet whirls, looks at him. "What is?"

He shakes his head. "You just reminded me of Lauren, for a moment."

"…Lauren?" Oh, Juliet thinks, this is not good, mysterious women who cook dinner are not good at all!

"My baby sister. She was about…twelve, I think? I was in school, graduate school, but I'd moved back in to keep an eye on her, because someone had to, and she was convinced that cooking real dinners was the key to saving our family. She's an incurable optimist. You remind me of her often, really." He smiles, shyly, and then – as if he realizes he's said too much – offers Juliet the now-clean vegetables.

"You've never told me about her," Juliet says with a smile, and if they're making confessions and sharing secrets already, things can only get better!

…and then the doorbell rings, and if Carlton was four and a half minutes early, then this has got to be Shawn, and he's s almost fifteen minutes early! But at least, she thinks, at least Carlton still got there first, because she knows him well enough to know that if Carlton showed up and Shawn were already there, there'd be little chance of him staying.

"There's more people coming?" Carlton says, seeming confused, and Juliet chooses not to answer him: she just answers the door.

"Jules! I brought you a present!" says Shawn, and then he's shoving a pineapple into her hands. "Lassy! What a pleasant surprise!"

Carlton's eyes are narrowed, and he mumbles "Indeed."

"Sorry I'm early, Jules, it's just that Gus is in Chicago and I'm bored," Shawn announces. "Jules, you can save that pineapple for later, I will _not_ be offended."

"What is Gus doing in Chicago?" asks Carlton, and Shawn just shakes his head.

"Like I told you already. Wait, did I tell you already? He has a date."

"A date?" Carlton echoes, incredulously, and Shawn reaches out and pats him on the shoulder.

"Yes, Lassy, a date. That's when two people who like each other very much…" he begins, in a condescending tone, and Juliet quickly interrupts with a shout of "Shawn!"

The two men – who had been looking at one another warily, both turn to look at Juliet. She smiles, thinking that it's about time to put part two of her plan into action. "While we're waiting for dinner to be ready, how about a tour of the house?" She leads them quickly through the tiny stupid bathroom (claw-foot bathtub smack in the middle of the room), pauses for a moment in the living-room, takes them way too quickly through her bedroom, and finally pauses in the spare room.

"This is, um, where I keep all the rest of my stuff," she mumbles, a bit lamely. There's bookshelves and a futon, a twelve-year-old computer and the round wicker chair that was the envy of all her dorm-mates. More importantly, though, for Juliet's purposes: the small window is shuttered tight from the outside, and she has the key to the room in her pocket. "Come on in," she gestures, turning on the light: Carlton and Shawn mutely obey, no doubt expecting nothing more than a quick glance like they'd had of the other rooms.

Juliet manages to maneuver the two men into the room, and then she's blocking the doorway and grinning. "Um, Shawn, Carlton, I thought maybe the two of you might want to wait here until I finished cooking. And I thought – well I thought – I thought you might want to take an opportunity to talk about some things. Because I think there's a lot of things the two of you have kept unsaid for far too long." She grins again, steps back, closes and locks the door, and wanders back into the kitchen.

The water has finally started to boil, and she occupies herself with the dinner: cooking vegetables, laying out meticulous rows of noodles, layering vegetables and cheeses, and finally maneuvering the whole mess in the oven. She sets the kitchen timer, then tiptoes down the hallway to see how the two men are doing.

Pausing in the doorway to listen before opening it, she discovers it's curiously quiet on the other side of it. When she opens the door, she looks in to see Carlton fussing with the window and Shawn sprawled sideways in the wicker chair with a book in his hands. "Hey, Jules," he says, and Carlton whirls around to glare at her.

"Have you, um, had a nice talk?" she asks.

"Talk? Like I'd waste time talking to him," mutters Carlton.

Shawn just shrugs. "This is interesting reading material, Jules, I'm about to see if the angry mob storms the royal governor's palace."

"What…how…" Juliet stammers, looking from Shawn to Carlton and back again. "How are you farther along in that book than I am? How have you just been sitting here and not…talking…"

Another shrug from Shawn. "We're guys."

…of course, the one part of the plan she'd neglected. You can't just force people to talk to one-another, can you? Especially when they don't want to, especially about sex and love and feelings and…argh. She whirls around, slams the door, and makes a strangled frustrated sound in the back of her throat. It's all falling apart, she's wasted days of plotting and planning, not to mention the hours already spent on dinner and she's just about to give it up when all of a sudden the pieces all fall into place.

It's a moment of perfect clarity. It's brilliant.

You can only ignore the elephant in the room for so long after someone's just pointed it out at the top of her lungs, after all.

Juliet grins, a bit wickedly, and re-opens the door.


	4. Of Thirsty Horses and the Elephant

[[Author's Note:

You guys are all just pure awesome. I really mean it. Thank you for reading, reviewing, favorite-ing, being generally good for my self-esteem, &c &c &c.

So I have good news and bad news. The bad news first, because that's what people usually want: this chapter is short, and I apologize for that. (It had to be, because I have to switch the narration POV!)

The good news? I've already started the next one, so it'll be updated very soon!

Special thanks for torchil, Kyhy, fmapreshwab, elyoko11, FaithDie, aki, Daikuro-chan, and beardofbees for your reviews. Y'all are awesome. But you already knew that.

Oh, and bonus points for fmapreshwab, who totally solved the mystery of what Gus is up to. Psychic detectives everywhere would be so proud. ;)

H&Ks, Elske]]

Juliet turns on her heel and re-opens the door; she's got one hand on her hip and the other is clutching the key and there's something far from benevolent in her expression.

"Carlton. Shawn. Can you both hear me?" she asks, syrupy-sweet, looking from Carlton to Shawn and back. Carlton, she notices, has that I-wish-I-had-my-gun look on his face, and Shawn looks…amused? Oh no, amusement is not the right response to furious anger. Not in the least.

They both nod in the affirmative, and Juliet's grin widens. "Good. By my estimation we've half an hour before dinner is ready and I'll be damned if you're going to spend it not-talking. I know you don't want to, but you know what? Too. Bad."

She shakes her hair out of her face, rather melodramatically, narrows her eyes in Shawn's general direction. "Shawn, can I ask you something? When was the last time you had a serious girlfriend?"

"Define serious?" Shawn attempts, notices Juliet's complete lack of amusement. "Nineteen ninety something. Six? Eight? When did the song Hey Jealousy come out? It was on the radio in the car when she dumped me."

"Hmm." She nods. "And – as a matter of curiosity, Shawn – I've never asked you directly, but: are you heterosexual?"

"Jules!" He grins, gets to his feet, begins to cross the room towards her. "You know I love me the ladies."

She holds out her hand, palm up, keeping him at a distance. "Exclusively, Shawn? Really?"

Shawn's eyes go very wide. "Look, Jules, we can talk about girlish experimentation any time you like but around…" he nods his head severely, exaggeratedly in Carlton's direction, "it's a little, you-know…"

"I know." She frowns, bites her lip. "Shawn, have you ever noticed how much time you spend touching Carlton Lassiter? Especially during your visions? Have you ever wondered if the spirits are trying to _tell you something_? Think about it, Shawn, think about it long and hard."

He giggle-snorts, says "Jules, you just said _long and hard_," in a stage-whisper; she just glares at him and he shrinks away.

"Look, as much fun as this is," Carlton says, from near the window, and Juliet turns her cold gaze on him. "Carlton. Dear, dear Carlton. Have you ever noticed how much time you spend watching Shawn? Or talking about Shawn? When he's around, yes, and even when he's not? You complain about it in the way that makes it seem like you wish he were around. And you keep all the notes he's written you. "

"O'Hara, are you implying…" he begins, but Juliet interrupts.

"And I've never in my life shoved someone against a wall unless I was trying to ask them to kiss me or trying to ask them to screw me, Carlton. I could spend the entire thirty minutes ahead of us mentioning every time you've done that to Shawn, but I won't, because that would be entirely unproductive, not to mention repetitive."

"O'Hara…"

"Also, Carlton, at this very moment you have a Depeche Mode CD in your car stereo. Don't even bother trying to deny that one." She narrows her eyes, takes a deep breath, and turns her attention back to Shawn.

"So. Shawn. Carlton. They say you can lead a horse to water and you can't make it drink? Well, guess what. My horses are in the desert, gentlemen, and you know what happens to horses in the desert? They get very, _very_ thirsty. It's like that game, where I tell you not to think about white elephants and you know what you're thinking about right now? White elephants, that's what, and try to ignore an elephant in the room this big. The radiator is there, my handcuffs are downstairs, and I'm going to check on the lasagna. I'll see you in a half hour." She grins sweetly, waves, and takes a step backward out the door, locks it firmly behind her.

They're talking already, she realizes.

Shawn's voice says _She mixed her metaphors up more than I do._

Carlton's voice says _What does Depeche Mode have to do with anything?_

It's a brilliant start. She grins and wanders back into the kitchen to check the lasagna.


	5. Of Confinement and Carlton's List

[[Author's Notes:

Hello dear readers! I promised a quick update for you, and here it is! These chapters might be short and arrive quickly, because I feel the need to end the chapter when I want to switch which character's headspace I'm writing in. It seems less confusing that way, to me at least!

Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. Extra special thanks to fmapreshwab (as always! 'cause it was her prompt that started this), Margaret-Malfoy, torchil, elyoko11, aki, and Curious Forgotten Lore for your reviews. As I always say, there's no point in writing a story if no-one is going to read it!

Hopefully another update – from Lassiter land! – will be forthcoming in a reasonably prompt manner. I'm trying to juggle both this and another multichapter fic ("All of You & All of Me" if you haven't read it), but I think I'll be able to manage. Writing is what gets me out of bed in the…afternoon, ha!

Anyway! Enjoy. 3

H&Ks, Elske!]]

Shawn closes his eyes for a long moment, trying to figure out when Juliet O'Hara became his mother. And, more importantly, where had _he_ been, not paying attention to Jules noticing all the things that she'd noticed: wasn't being hyper observant and jumping to the not-so-obvious conclusions _his_ job?

When he re-opens his eyes, Lassiter is still scowling near the window and muttering about music under his breath. "Dude. Let it go," he says, lightly. "I don't get it either."

Lassiter turns his scowl on Shawn. "_Why _is she doing this to us? I…I could have her arrested. I need to talk to the Chief. I need…"

Shawn frowns, reaches out, pats Lassiter on the shoulder. "Lassy. I'm pretty sure she's doing this because in some twisted way, she's trying to tell us she loves us."

"Yeah. Right." Lassiter shakes his head, growls under his breath, and Shawn wonders if it's worth it trying to explain _anything_ to him.

The thing of it is, though, once Shawn thinks something, he has a very hard time _not_ following through with it. "Look, it's like what my mom did when I was a kid. Only, admittedly, a little bit gayer. My dad and I would get into a fight about something stupid and finally my mom would sit us down and tell us how stupid we were both being and that always settled it."

Lassiter raises one eyebrow. "No wonder they're divorced."

"She left _him_!" Shawn says, automatically defensive. "That's not the point, Lassy," he adds, with a sigh, and – he actually has to stop himself from touching the other man again. He'd never been bothered to be self-conscious about it, before Jules brought it up – but she had it dead on, there.

(As far as he's concerned, she got a lot of things dead on.)

"So. Do you want to talk about it?" he adds, lamely, and Lassiter gives him a long-suffering look.

"Talk about what, Spencer? About your mother? About Depeche Mode? About the cruel and unusual punishment my partner is subjecting us to?"

"It's not all bad. I totally smell lasagna." Shawn grins. "I think she was right about one or two things, at least."

Lassiter looks away. "What? About the spirits drawing you to me during your visions? I don't buy that one for a minute, because that would involve believing you were psychic."

"About me," Shawn says, and then –instantly! – regrets it. For a moment, anyway.

"About your being psychic?" He snorts.

"About my being, _you-know_." A thousand euphemisms flicker through his brain and he finally settles on "Bent?"

"You're batshit insane, Spencer. That's not news." Lassiter nearly smiles, and Shawn rolls his eyes.

"I meant bent as in _queer_. A little bit. A little bit queer." He frowns, there, a quick – nearly ashamed – sort of look. "I don't know what else to call it, calling myself "bi" makes me sound like a fickle college girl, and I really do like women. Some women," he clarifies, a hint of smile returning to his expression. "Some men. Sometimes."

He closes his eyes, again, because he can't quite stand to look at Lassiter just now – because he's afraid that _that_ would give even more away than he's willing, and he's not willing to get into a discussion about blue eyes and strong hands and the times when he's had to think entire litanies of unsexy thoughts because the last thing he needed was to get an already angry Lassiter complaining of sexual harassment mid-manhandling.

"Congratulations," Lassiter says, dryly, but there's a funny little catch in his voice – so subtle that Shawn almost didn't notice it: in fact, he realizes, he probably _wouldn't_ have noticed it if he'd had his eyes open, had a visual cue to distract from the auditory.

Shawn opens his eyes, gives Lassiter a measuring look. "Does it bother you, Lassy?"

"I'm not a bigot, Shawn." The other man's eyes narrow. "Please don't tell me you're going to accuse me of homophobia now, every time I get upset when you've done something stupid."

He cracks a smile. "Sure, and now's the part where you tell me some of your best friends are queer, right?"

Lassiter actually laughs there, although it's a dangerous (humorless!) sort of laugh. "Not really. Not at all. More like the top two members of my shitlist, if you want to be technical."

"Queer criminals done you wrong?"

"Having criminals on your shitlist is easy. It's when they're family that it's difficult." There's a long silence, and Shawn watches as Lassiter hesitates on the words. "My mother, my hypocrite bitch of a mother, she turns fifty and comes out. She leaves us for another woman. The world would be a lot better off if they'd just driven right into the Pacific, but nothing's ever _that _easy, is it?"

Shawn pales, because he's actually taken aback, by that: the most personal revelation he's ever had from the enigmatic Carlton Lassiter. "I guess we've got something in common, then. But when my mother left, I took her side."

"I didn't care that she left me. I was an adult, I could take care of myself, but Lauren…she was just a kid, for god's sake. And my wife – number three," and he holds up three fingers for emphasis, "on the shitlist, by the way, my _ex_-wife who always though I didn't want children, didn't like children, couldn't handle children and I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, tell her that at twenty-four years old I moved back home to raise my baby sister, because someone had to and no one else in my family knows a damn thing about being responsible for their actions." He flinches, looks at Shawn. "Why the hell am I telling you this?"

"Because you're angry? You're angry at Jules, and you're angry at me, obviously, and now you're thinking about all the other things you're angry about." Shawn shrugs. "It's a pretty simple analysis, Lassyface. What number am I?"

"Pardon?" Lassiter frowns, and his forehead creases, and Shawn has to pretend that he doesn't find it adorable.

"On your shitlist. What number am I?"

"It varies, between four and fifteen. Depending on the day. Right now Jules is solidly at four – for the first time in her life, might I add, is she even _on_ the list. I don't know where you are. Probably closer to the bottom, at the moment, although that's liable to change at any time."

"Your mom actually waited until she was fifty to come out?"

Lassiter, apparently, is refusing to dignify that question with an answer.

"That's weird. I've never come out, because I've never been in, I don't think." Shawn shrugs. "Of course, you, mister straight and narrow Lassipants, you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Straight and narrow?" Lassiter echoes.

"That's right." Shawn grins, rather wickedly. "Straight and narrow. Macho manly man. You're the type who probably never even thought about kissing another man, except maybe for a brief moment when Brokeback Mountain was in the headlines infringing on the otherwise powerfully manly territory of your beloved cowboy movies."

"You really think that?"

Shawn just gives him a look, and Lassiter laughs, deep in his throat.

"And you call yourself a psychic, Spencer? …_gotcha_." The expression on Lassiter's face is predatory, positively wicked, as he takes a step closer to Shawn: Shawn, who is suddenly realizing that getting out of this trap he's just stepped in is going to take all the powers of perception he's got, and a great bit of luck besides.

(And that is going to be something very _very_ difficult to concentrate on with the sudden lightheaded fluttery feeling that maybe, just maybe, there might be some kind of something to that fantasy he's been having for years…)


	6. Of Love Agape and Psychic Bravado

[[Author's Notes:

I have two – three? – things to apologize for here. No. 1: how long it took to get this bit up. No.2: the attack of the Original Character from Carlton's Past. And No.3: how relatively short it is.

I hope you like it anyway! &hearts

As always, thanks for your reviews, alerts, favorite-ing &c. &with special thanks for fmapreshwab, torchil, and aki, my awesometastic reviewers.

H&Ks, Elske]]

It was only the matter of a split-second's considering whether or not it was worth it to out himself to Spencer: the potential reward of proving the lack-of-psychic-abilities was far greater than the risk of spilling a simple silly youthful indiscretion. (Also, there's the matter of Spencer already having revealed similar information about himself, thus evening the odds and eliminating the possibility of anything said in this conversation being used as blackmail. It's the Mutually Assured Destruction of secrets. Carlton Lassiter isn't stupid.)

"_Gotcha_," and he's grinning like a fool and it's definitely worth it to see that look cross Spencer's face, although…no, it's not going to be that easy, because now Spencer's laughing and that means…what does that mean?

"Oh, Lassipants, I know better. I really just wanted to hear you say it, it was so much more fun that way. So you kissed a guy and he liked it – it may or may not have had anything to do with your cherry chapstick…" his eyes have fluttered closed, he's got his fingers pressed to his temples, and Carlton really wants to punch him in the face. (Also, now that it's been mentioned, it's all he can do not to retrieve the tube of cherry chapstick from his pocket and put some on, and _how_ could Spencer have known about that?)

"Is that so, psychic?" Carlton says, trying to keep his voice as level, as neutral as possible.

"And there's nothing wrong with that!" Shawn opens his eyes with another one of those infuriating grins. "It's okay, Carlton, everyone goes through a teenage rebellious phase. Wait, no, not teenage rebellion, teenage puppy love, only the kind of puppy love where you're both lifting your legs to piddle on the hydrants of life together."

Carlton actually takes a step back, and then another, and then slumps abruptly on the futon. This – thing – from when he was little more than a kid, it's not something he likes to think about often, and part of that is because it's still painful, it still hurts more than anything has a right to after twenty-some years. (Hurt more than losing Victoria, than losing his mother, than losing…).

"How do you do that?" he snaps. "Never mind. I don't want to know. I don't want to talk about it."

"So I'm right, then?" Spencer grins, crosses the room to the futon, and he's hovering smugly. "It was the late 80s and you listened to Depeche Mode and made out in the backseat of his car."

"You make it sound dirty, and it wasn't at all like that, it was…" Carlton trails off with a sigh, remembering: sleeping bags in the backyard when they were both fifteen, a sky full of stars and Will's head pillowed on his shoulder _there aren't enough words for love in English, Carlton, the Greeks had the right of it. You'll laugh at me if I say it in English, I love you, not love-you-eros but love-you-agape. _A year later, moved from declarations of love to clumsy first kisses. A year later, disaster. "It was…no one had ever told us it was wrong."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Of course they didn't. Why didn't you marry him?" That question, so glib and irreverent, and it makes Carlton even angrier.

"Because my mother walked in on us engaged in a relatively innocent expression of intimacy and forbade me ever to speak to him again. And then she phoned his father and told him what a sexual deviant his son was. And at school on Monday, he was there with a black eye and a broken collarbone and a shattered wrist and wouldn't even speak to me when I tried to apologize." He narrows his eyes, peers up at Spencer, and there's fury in his voice. "He was my best friend, he was my only friend and I loved him and _she_ ruined it. And I never even got to apologize."

"Phone him up. Apologize now," Spencer offers, and Carlton just sighs.

"I tried that once. He wouldn't talk to me. I got to have a lovely chat with his husband, though."

"So he's still gay? But you're not? Interesting, that."

Carlton bites his lip, peers up at Spencer. "What do you mean by that?"

Spencer shrugs. "It seems to me that if your first love was another boy – another gay boy, might I add – and you haven't gotten over it and, well, it all makes sense, how bad you are with women, why your wife left you…maybe it'd be more comfortable out of that closet, Lassieface.

It's the last straw; Carlton growls deep in his throat and gets to his feet in one smooth movement: a heartbeat later, and he's got one of Spencer's shoulders in each of his hands and he's pinned him up against the one section of the wall not filled with Juliet's girlish memorabilia. He's close enough that he can hear the other man's sudden inhalation of breath and – because he's looking the other man in the eyes – he can see the way Spencer's pupils are suddenly dilated.

It's chemical, Carlton thinks, it's human nature that he wants to respond to that subconscious show of attraction.

"Which is it that you want, then?" Spencer breathes and Carlton lets him go in one quick, panicked gesture: palms up, as if in surrender.


	7. Of Breathless Impact and NearConfession

[[Author's Notes:

Hello everyone! Again, apologies for leaving this almost a week between updates. I don't even have a good excuse this time, haha. Better late then never? More will be coming soon – I _really_ think we need to see what Juliet is up to, don't you? *evil grin*

A writer would be nothing without her readers. I would thank each of you individually, but alas, the best I can do is thank my reviewers: fmapreshwab, torchil, whyamisoclever, and schifferluv. Thank you, thank you, _thank you._

Again, you're probably impatient, so on to the rest!

H&K's, Elske!]]

That singular moment of impact: Lassy's fingers tightening on his shoulders and feeling the wall suddenly against his back, and it's funny – because it shouldn't have been enough to knock the wind out of him, but in that moment Shawn Spencer is both dazed and breathless and so, so, _so_ turned on. For that split second he can't think of anything at all, except a faint glimmer of hope that the impact of his body against the wall will soon be followed by the impact of Lassiter's body against his.

…but it isn't.

And so Shawn has to wrench his brain away, think think _think!_ Mayonnaise. Barefoot Gus. The hairball Little Boy Cat left on the carpet. Dead people. Chad Michael Murray's cold untrustworthy eyes. Serial killers.

And then, just as quickly, another thought – a flash of memory breaking through, Juliet with her hands on her hips: _…&and I've never in my life shoved someone against a wall unless I was trying to ask them to kiss me or trying to ask them to screw me, Carlton._

An out. Brilliant. And so Shawn smiles, and breathes "Which is it that you want, then," with what little breath he has left, and he thinks about raisins even though he's really hoping that Lassy will kiss him so hard they might just need to get naked on Juliet's futon.

But that's not what happens, because that's the moment when Lassy panics: lets Shawn go as quickly as if he were burnt, holds his palms up in the age-old symbol for surrender and Shawn tries to pretend a little part of his heart didn't just sink.

(At least he doesn't need to think about unsexy things any more.)

"Damnit, Spencer," Lassy swears, looking down, looking right, looking everywhere that isn't the direction Shawn is in. "Damnit, that's not what I…you know what, forget it. I think I can slip the lock, get us out of here. You…" he trails off into a nonsense angry syllable, then turns to look Shawn right in the eyes. "You're just like your damn mother."

Of all the things Shawn was expecting to hear, this was certainly not one of them. He raises both of his eyebrows, says "Excuse me?"

"Your mother, the shrink. You're just like her, it's like…one minute I'm being sensible, I'm being myself, I'm being Carlton…and then the next I'm just talking like someone slipped me sodium pentathol and I'm telling secrets I didn't even know I had." He pauses, and a strange look crosses his face. "You didn't, did you?"

Shawn rolls his eyes. "I didn't what, Lassypants? Slip you truth serum? Absolutely not, although if you had anything to eat or drink before I got here, maybe Jules did. …and before you even try to figure that out, I'm joking, obviously."

"Evidence obtained under the influence of that is _not_ admissible," Lassy mutters, and Shawn tries hard to pretend that he doesn't find it adorable, but he's slipping. He's been slipping around Lassiter a lot, now more than ever, and he definitely thinks Jules was right about a lot of things.

_You can lead a horse to water and watch him drown_.

Shawn sighs, stretches both hands above his head, cracks his knuckles, searches for courage, finds it wanting, decides he doesn't care.

"You know, Lassyface," he says, slowly moving a bit closer to the other man. "I think there's a lot of validity to some of the things Juliet had to say. Maybe you don't, but I do. And –" he reaches out, grabs Lassiter by the shirt-front, and the other man is so shocked it's ridiculously easy to maneuver him. Shawn's hands are flat on Lassy's chest, and he reaches out, to shove _him_ abruptly against the wall. "I'm probably going to get shot for this, but it'd so totally be worth it," he mutters under his breath.

Shawn's hands tremble, as he keeps Lassiter pinned to the wall, and he finds enough courage to raise one eyebrow, murmur "Like that thing she said about shoving people against walls? I totally agree with that one, Lassiter, so I suppose this means I'm asking."

(And for a moment, he feels like he's about to faint: the rushing of air in his ears and a heaviness in his hands and it's all he can do to just stay put, staring into Carlton Lassiter's blue blue eyes.)


	8. Of Consequences and the Ending World

[[Author's Notes:

It seems like all I do in these things is apologize for tardiness. And here I am doing it again!

Does anyone know much about Lassie's dad, canonically? In discussing it with fmapreshwab, I decided that he was one of those melancholy, disillusioned, disabled war vets: hence the choice of weapon listed. I actually did research. And in case you're wondering, I'm pretty sure Lassie keeps that one in the table at his bedside.

Thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and being generally awesome. I love you all. And if you've been around long enough to hear my complaining about my biology class, I finished it today. Feel free to leave me celebratory reviews and/or write me some Shassie fic. ;) ;)

Special thanks to my reviewers: torchil, DaiKuro-Chan, fmapreshwab, blackm00n5, NBunBun, elyoko11, beardofbees, and aki. Oh, and thanks to beardofbees for pointing out that I totally forgot to give credit to Michael Stipe for the line : _you can lead a horse to water and watch him drown_, which is from the REM song "Horse To Water". I can't remember if I stole it or if Shawn did. Hehehe.

So here's the next part. Please enjoy.

H&Ks, Elske]]

"…so I suppose this means I'm asking," says Spencer, and he's suddenly far too close, as close as two people could possibly be without touching, just a breath of air between them. His face is too close to focus on, so Carlton closes his eyes, because obviously it's _that_ that's making him dizzy.

"Do _I_ have to do it?" Spencer breathes, and Carlton's forgotten the fundaments of the English language for a long long moment.

"What?" he finally responds, and he swears he can feel a shift in Spencer's eyelashes when he rolls his eyes.

"You're going to shoot me for this. Promise me you'll use a _very _big gun," says Spencer, and Carlton re-opens his eyes at the exact moment the distance between them is closed in one soft, clumsy kiss.

It makes Carlton think of his very first kiss – _Will laughing, mumbling something about the ancient Greeks, kissing him so quickly that their entire faces collided_ – but the second one, the second one was better and so that's got to be the reason that Carlton does what he does. He reaches out, bunches his hands in Spencer's shirtfront, draws him in closer and kisses _him_.

And Spencer, Spencer moves his hands to Carlton's waist, threads his fingers through the belt-loops at his hips, sighs into the kiss parting his lips in an invitation and that – that! – that is when Carlton comes to his senses.

He draws away – not far enough away that he's let go of the other man – just far enough that he can open his eyes, that he can focus, that he can get a read on the situation. Because this, this, this situation is going against everything that he's spent so long trying to become.

Spencer licks his lips, reflexively, and there's something about his face his posture his _being_ that suggests complete and total disappointment and that cuts Carlton to the quick, somehow.

"Don't worry," he murmurs, "I'm not going to shoot you. But, Spencer, I can't…" Pause. Deep breath. "I can't do this, not now, not with you, I promised myself I wouldn't…" he trails off, tries to sort out the flood of memory, emotion, that's suddenly engulfing him.

Love, _real _love, that's risky. That leads to pain, to broken bones and broken hearts and a look of cold disappointment and hatred in those dark dark eyes. Love begins and ends and then it hurts, white hot agony, and you're eighteen years old and turning your father's old Smith & Wesson Hush Puppy pistol over and over and over in your hands and wondering how long a bullet would hurt in your brain.

There's fear in his eyes when he looks at Spencer, says "Don't you see, I'm not seventeen anymore, Spencer."

"And you're scared," Spencer says, matter-of-factly, and Carlton just scowls. "What was it like, then, when you were seventeen?"

Carlton sighs. "Probably like it is for you every single day," he admits, and there it is, one of the biggest reasons he's resented the other man, right out in the open. "Consequence free was what it was like, and beautiful, and…we didn't know it was wrong, when we started, you know? Part of me thought that what we were doing, we were the first people ever in the world to do. The first love of the world," and there's a stinging like tears at the back of his eyes and damnit, he's not going to cry in front of Shawn Spencer. "But we weren't. We were just part of a chain of deviants, and now that I'm not seventeen, now that I understand responsibility, I get it, Spencer. Broken bones and broken hearts and at least when Victoria left it didn't…"

Whatever else he was going to say is interrupted by Spencer, gathering him roughly in close and kissing him again, and this time it's neither awkward nor sweet nor longing: this time it's quick and sharp, a flash of Spencer's teeth lingering against Carlton's lower lip, and when Spencer draws back there's an apologetic look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he admits, letting go of Carlton, and it's his turn to offer his empty hands, palms up, towards the other man. "It was just the only way I could think of to get you to stop talking, and I really needed you to stop talking, and…what if it was consequence-free, what if we _were_ seventeen again – and you're really lucky I'm not singing the song right now, by the way, but it's not really the appropriate moment for the Eurythmics – if the world were ending in twenty minutes, Carlton Lassiter, what would you do?"

Carlton's forehead wrinkles as he looks at Spencer. "The world's not."

"Aha!" Spencer raises one eyebrow, grins. "But what if it were? It might be!" He taps his fingers against his temple, says "…remember?"

Carlton decides it's his turn to interrupt, and half a breath later he's got Spencer by the shirtfront again, pinning him up against the wall again, and this time the kiss is slow and languid and he doesn't resist the invitation of Spencer's parted lips, throaty sigh.


	9. Of Kisses and Compromises

[[Author's Notes:

Dear readers: I love you all! :D

I'm sorry I keep making chapter breaks in such torturous places: my intention was never to torture any of you, promise! Thanks especially to my reviewers, torchil, DaiKuro-Chan, jj, whyamisoclever, The Last First Elk., and blackm00n5.

This is winding down, but thanks to brainstorming with dear fmapreshwab, I've settled on the fact that there will be a sequel. With 100% more crime solving action! Yay.

Okay, dears: read, review, enjoy.

H&Ks, Elske]]

Shawn's glad he's in the position he's in: neatly propped up between Carlton Lassiter and the wall, because he's growing increasingly light-headed and he doesn't have to worry about staying steady on his feet. And he wants, so desperately, skin-to-skin contact, enough that he dares to shift his hands up under the hem of Lassy's shirt, twitch-splay his fingers against the other man's back, and that must have been the moment he's gone too far.

Lassy draws back, just a bit, murmurs a breathless "_Spencer_," followed by "I think…I think…I can't…I need to sit down," he declares, finally, letting Shawn go, dashing to sit on the edge of the futon.

And Shawn, Shawn wants to follow him down, wants to straddle his legs and shove him back against the faded cushions and unbutton his shirt, stroke his fingers through that glorious chest hair, do whatever it took to make him moan and whimper and beg…and then he realizes he's too caught up in his daydream, and that Lassy's giving him a funny look, and he wonders how long he was silent, _staring_.

"The world, it didn't end," Lassy murmurs, and he almost sounds sad about it, and that's striking and almost painful.

"Yeah, well, it's a proven fact that it's impossible for me to communicate accurately with the spirit world when I have a hard-on," he jokes, and when Lassiter flinches, so does Shawn. Could it be possible, he wonders, that the other man would actually have preferred it had the world actually ended?

Carefully, cautiously, he takes the three steps to the side of the futon, puts one – slightly trembling – hand on Lassiter's shoulder. "Carlton?" he says, actually daring to use the given name, and he's delighted at the sudden happy smile that rewards him for that risk. "Is this…are we…okay?"

"I'm not any good at this," Lassiter replies, staring at a fixed point on the opposite wall.

"I beg to differ," murmurs Shawn with a smile, and Lassiter turns to look at him.

"Relationships, Spencer." A long pause. "Just ask Victoria. Ask any of the women who've made a run for the bathroom before dinner was even served. Call up William-_fucking_-Mayfair and ask him what happens when…"

Shawn goes with an earlier tactic: leans down and kisses him quickly, gently, enough to interrupt that train of thought because it's never going to go anywhere that'll benefit him.

"Lassy?" he asks, finally, moving to perch next to him on the edge of Juliet's futon. "Are you attracted to…do you have feelings for…me?" The twenty thousand dollar question, although with inflation who knows how much more it'd be worth! And part of his brain itches to figure that out while he waits for an answer, because Shawn Spencer can't ever think of just one thing at a time, but he's afraid he might miss the answer.

"Spencer!" There's a hint of outrage in his voice. "Do you think I would have…" a pause, a sigh, and then "Trust me, Shawn Spencer, I would never have kissed you if I hadn't…"

It's Shawn's turn to smile, then, one of his bright irresistible smiles. "Know something? I was attracted to you from the first time I saw you – the first time you manhandled me – but it was that night in the bar I really fell for you. Remember? Or were you too drunk."

"You astound me," Carlton murmurs, without daring to look at Shawn. "I almost remember. Yeah."

"The thing of it is, is that I'm not any good at relationships either." He rolls his eyes, tries to pretend he's not nervous as hell about asking Lassiter this. "But- I'd be willing to try? Because I think you're kind of worth it."

If Shawn thought Lassiter's smile earlier was blindingly happy, the one he gets after asking that question is infinitely more so. "I think I'd like that. But - does everyone have to know?"

There's a sudden chill in the air, and Shawn asks, "Are you ashamed of me, then?" in a very small voice.

"Sweet justice, Spencer, I'm ashamed of _me_." Lassy closes his eyes. "I can only picture your father, Gus, Jules, the Chief! The looks on their faces, and just in case it doesn't work…it'll be easier for me to figure things out if it's just between us, for right now. If you're willing."

"Yeah, you're kind of worth it." Shawn laughs, wraps his arm around Lassiter's shoulders. "Lassy? Kiss me?" He gives him that irresistible pouty smile and Lassy has no choice to comply, and they're too busy kissing there on the futon to hear the sound of the key in the locked door.

(The little squeal that Juliet makes, though, that captures their attention: especially coupled with the way she's bouncing on the balls of her feet and clapping her hands and then suddenly launching herself at the futon for a group hug: that would have been pretty damn hard to ignore.)


	10. Of Green D and Wrapping Up Loose Ends

"I can't believe you actually _volunteered_ to take me to pick up Gus at the airport," Shawn says, smiling one of those ridiculously-happy smiles at Lassiter.

Without looking away from the road, the other man raises one eyebrow. "Do you think for a moment that my motives were entirely altruistic, Spencer? If I didn't do it, you might have called your father and you might have told your father…"

"…we agreed I could tell Gus," Shawn interrupts, in a small voice, trying once again to pretend that it doesn't hurt, that Lassiter doesn't want people to know, because if it were up to Shawn he'd make a banner, hire a skywriter, _Carlton Lassiter kissed me and I liked it! And vice versa!_, or something quite like it.

( But that's the childish part of him; somewhere within is just enough of an adultish part of him that understands where dear sweet Lassipants is coming from. )

He's skittish. He was hurt pretty bad, by just about everyone he ever cared about. And yeah, relationships are tricky, but Carlton Lassiter is definitely, totally worth it.

"You said that if my best friend knew so could yours, not that I was aware that O'Hara was my best friend…"

Shawn gives him a _look_. "Who else, if not Jules?" He reaches out, puts one hand gently on Lassiter's knee, and is pleased when there isn't any sign of protest from the other man.

"It'll…I'll learn how to calm down," Lassiter adds, in a not-so-convinced voice, and Shawn just grins, leans over and kisses his cheek.

"I'll learn how to calm up."

"That makes absolutely no sense, Spencer."

"You'll get used to it," Shawn says with a grin, and he slides his hand up Lassiter's thigh a bit. Still no protesting, which means there's a whole lot of promise.

They get to the airport, take a ticket from the machine, begin an endless circle of the parking garage, finally end up in Green D: a part of the garage that looks nearly deserted, and Shawn's pretty sure he saw some free spaces back down a level in Yellow C, but he's not willing to argue. He squeezes Lassiter's thigh, before unbuckling his seatbelt, getting out of the car.

And it seems no sooner that he's out of the car that Lassiter's moved to his side, catches the roundness of his shoulders in his hands and Shawn finds himself firmly pressed up against one of the concrete walls of the almost deserted floor of the parking garage.

"Oh," he murmurs, and the reason for not searching farther in Yellow C is suddenly crystal clear, and then he's watching Lassiter's eyes go closed, feeling the press of the other man's body against his own and then – finally! – he's being kissed. He whimpers low in his throat, grabs at Lassister's hips to drag himself even _closer_, to make it perfectly obvious how much he really does enjoy the combination of surprise parking garage kisses and Carlton Lassiter. He shifts his hips, is gratified to hear Lassy whimper once before drawing away.

"You'll make me into an exhibitionist at this rate," he mutters, but there's a smile in his eyes and Shawn grins again, grabs for Lassiter's hand, twines his fingers through Lassiter's.

"Gus should be here by now," he answers simply, and is gratified by this small show of affection: holding hands with Carlton Lassiter, all the way to the elevator, all the way into the airport proper, and Lassiter only lets go when surrounded by a crowd of people on the plane from Chicago.

"Bruton Guster!" Shawn calls out, bouncing on his toes and waving his arms exaggeratedly in the air, and he sees Gus, in the crowd, flinch. "How was your trip how was Chicago which baggage carousel are we going to? Oh how I love the word carousel and wouldn't getting your luggage be more fun if there were horses?" He's rambling, to keep himself from saying something he shouldn't, something about Lassy: and at the same time he's searching Gus, trying to find clues, trying to figure out who, what, where.

The scent of the perfume is familiar: it drags him back to the earliest days of Psych, a red-haired woman: and he frowns, looks at Gus a bit closer, notices three lipgloss kiss prints: one on his forehead, one on each cheek.

It clicks. "Regina Cane? You went to Chicago to go on a date with Regina Cane?"

"I told you, Shawn, I was going to Chicago to catch up with an old friend. You're the one who said ti was a date." Gus looks at Lassiter, looks nervous, looks back at Shawn. "Which it wasn't."

Shawn raises one eyebrow. "Dude, she kissed you at least three times."

"Four, Shawn, four times," and Gus shakes his head. "She is a _nice_ lady Shawn and she likes me and I don't want to hear anything about the fact that the body she lives in is sometimes inhabited by a guy. She's Regina almost all the time now, Shawn, Regina's the most stable part of her."

"I'd be more concerned with dating a murderess," Lassiter mutters under his breath, and both Shawn and Gus look at him for a moment.

"What is Lassy doing here?" Gus asks, and Shawn just laughs, grabs for Lassy's hand again. "Come on Gus, I'll tell you all about it in the car."

[[fin.]]


	11. Of Gratitude and a PsychOut!

[[Author's Notes:

Thank you all, so much, for sticking with me through this, everyone! It is one of the pieces I've written that I'm fondest of, and so I'm glad to see it done: and SO MANY hits, reviews, favorites: it's mindboggling. I feel at home in this fandom, and I want to say thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your continued support and awesomeness.

Special thanks to fmapreshwab, who gave me this idea, and who serves as a sounding board for my fic insanity. :D

Okay. So you know how, on the show, the episodes sometimes end with a "PSYCH-OUT", or outtake? I got this idea for an outtake several chapters ago and just couldn't resist writing an outtake for my fic. I hope I'm not the only one that finds it funny. ;)

Again. Thank you all. There will be a sequel to this, it's in the plotting stages, and it's going to be Elske's First Case!Fic and it's going to be awesome. So keep a lookout, dear readers.]]

[[&Outake!]]

Shawn's in the SBPD, hanging about Lassiter's desk, annoying him – as always, even if there is much more of a flirting, teasing tone about it these days. Gus hovers nearby, rolling his eyes at Shawn's double-entendres.

The sound of Juliet's giggling is enough to startle Shawn away from his conversation: he hasn't heard her giggle like that since the last time she hinted for details about him and Lassiter.

He turns his head just in time to see Juliet, talking to a tall willowy brunette. The other girl says something, and Juliette giggles again, gives her a playful shove against the faux-stucco wall.

And Shawn remembers what Juliet said once, about people being shoved up against walls, and his eyes go very, _very_ wide. "Dude, that is so hot," he says, interrupting all the conversation around him.

Lassiter's on his feet with one hand reaching for his gun. "That's not hot. That's my _sister_."


End file.
